Page 60 of The Game Changer

“Shall we watch the show or go to bed?” she asks once we finally break apart.

“I’m open to either,” I tell her, resting my forehead against hers. I press a quick kiss to her lips before she rolls again, pressing her back against my front. We adjust ourselves until we’re both back into the comfortable position we started out in.

* * *

“You actually made it,” Mark greets me as I enter the players area of the practice facility. It didn’t take much to get in, seeing as I played for the Eagles for over ten years.

“I did. I wasn’t going to leave you hanging,” I tell him, accepting his handshake.

“Let me introduce you to the new kid,” he says, leading the way into the locker room.

Most teams are very protective of their locker rooms, the Eagles being no different, so knowing that I’m still welcome past the doors means a lot to me. Not everyone who’s played for this team would get the same reception walking through the doors.

“Hey, rookie!” Mark calls out once we’re past the doors.

“Yes, captain,” the kid calls back as he walks over to us. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me. Damn, this kid is green.

“Dylan, I’d like to introduce you to Johnathan Camps. You might have heard of him before,” Mark introduces us.

“Mr. Camps, it is so nice to meet you,” he excitedly greets me.

“Call me JC or John, none of that Mr. Camps shit,” I tell him. “I might be retired, but I’m not that damn old,” I tease him.

“Of course, mister—I mean, JC.” He almost lets it slip again.

“What’s your nickname, kid? I know it isn’t rookie, even if all these assholes insist on calling you that this season,” I tell him, pointing around at everyone in the locker room.

“Soupy,” he tells me.

“Soupy? How the hell did you get that one?”

“Last name is Campbell; you know, like the soup company. Campbell’s Soup, so soupy it was,” he tells me.

“Got it. I played with a kid in my youth days with the same last name and he got called the same thing now that you say that.”

“I’ve met a few others and the same with all of us. Just comes with the last name, I guess.” He chuckles.

“What position do you play?” I ask.

“Left wing, sir.”

“Same as I did. No wonder Mark asked me to come in,” I muse. “How are you at face offs?” I ask.

“Okay, I could always be better at them, but I’m not horrible,” he admits, and I’m impressed that he isn’t trying to up-play his abilities like many rookies would.

“Hearing you say that tells me you’ll go far in this league. How old are you, Soupy?” I ask, using his actual nickname and not the rookie one the guys have taken to calling him.

“Nineteen, I’ll be twenty next month.”

“Damn, you are a young one.”

“Yes, sir,” he agrees with me.

“We can’t even take you out and get you drunk legally yet,” I muse. “So, tell me your story, Soupy.”

“Not much to tell, started playing at five, excelled quickly. Played juniors, drafted last year, was invited to camp for the AHL and made the team, got the call up last week to come play here in Indy,” he tells me quickly.

“Where are you from, kid?” I ask.

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